Blog and the City

I recently finished reading the latest installment of the Bridget Jones books (one book became two, two became three, and now 30-something Bridgie has tipped 50), and I have to say...I'm not sure what to think. Call it my sharper eye for detail; my more editorial view of books; my inner critic who combs the words on every page of every book I read wondering what, exactly, is the driving force behind the author's success––but I was a bit disappointed. 

I found it a bit one dimensional and flat, not really a character I could engage with. I wanted more––out of the writing, out of the character. Out of the plot-line. Overall, it was superficial and unsatisfying. And I know I'm probably going to get nailed to the wall for saying all this––after all, our dear Ms. Jones is supposed to be like the Everywoman, right? But most of the time, I just wanted to smack her.

Hopefully, we won't be treated to a third movie version of the book; but if one does happen to come to fruition, I sincerely hope it improves the book. Slamming the series, however, is not the intent of this post...rather, I'm ruminating on the aging of characters we have all long known and loved. The resurrection, I suppose you might call it, of those fictional heroines we all thought long retired from the page. 

Take, for example, Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City. I love, love, love the series. The TV version made me a huge SJP fan, when I previously was not. But the writers did such a wonderful job capturing Carrie and her cohorts, and the actors had obvious chemistry. It was pure magic. And, as unrealistic as many things may be (ahem, Jimmy Choos and Manolos on a writer's budget???), I still loved it. I related to aspects of each lady, but most of all, I felt a kinship with Carrie. She's off-beat, she's got her own very distinct style, she's a writer, and she carries a torch for a man named Big.  

When last we saw Carrie, she and Big were happily married, Samantha was happily single (again), Charlotte had two wee ones, and Miranda was being Miranda. 'Nuff said. They were all braving the steady march of time and rocking it. So the question lies...now that even Carrie's character is staring down the barrel at 50, will we revisit the foursome, now older?

And will these older characters have embraced the advances of technology, as Bridget Jones has? Bridge now has a Twitter feed and Facebook page, though hasn't yet taken up the blogosphere with her strange ramblings. 

If Carrie & co. do, once again grace us with their presence, will they blog and Tweet? Or will Carrie maintain her staunch practices as a luddite? I, personally, find it endearing. And another thing that makes her relatable. And even though I have a Facebook page; a blog; and a Twitter feed of my own, I do it because I need to be able to connect with people who might, I hope, one day help me see my dream fully realized. That this single-gal with a writing dream will make it as successfully as Carrie has.  So I write and post, not to inform the world of such minutiae as what I ate for breakfast, but to reach out into my universal community; and perhaps, become someone's Carrie or Bridget. Someone people want to see more of and read more of. Someone who makes other women feel a kinship.

Maybe one day, I'll be able to afford some Manolos of my own. 

Put on Your Dancing Shoes

It might not be much, but the temperature has risen. We're all up, actually––all around the country, from what I'm hearing on the radio. And those increased numbers are thrilling everyone as much as a marked increase in the economy. 
Better watch out, I might actually attempt the Twerk.
Or not.
More likely than not, I would end up looking like some version of Elaine on Seinfeld, so famous in her whiplash-like attempt at dancing. Unfortunately, I've got rhythm––but my own self-counsiousness makes me lose a grip on it when I think people might be watching.
All of which means that in situations of dancing––concerts and the occasional beat-thumping atmosphere of the nightclubs I went into once or twice in my roaring twenties––you'll likely find me with my feet firmly planted on the floor in one spot, even while my head and upper body are doing a barely detectable version of a bounce. 
Or something.
All tragic attempts at dancing aside, when I'm alone in my car or at home, I seem to have a pretty good grasp on what qualifies as publicly acceptable dancing.
The perception of eyes––real or imagined––renders me danceless.
Sad, but true. 
Actually, that seems to be true about most things that make us all feel vulnerable.
If we feel like someone's watching, we become inept. We get in our own heads, and then in our own way.
Our mental feet trip themselves up, and we stumble and fall.
That's something I'd like to change about myself.
Not the literal dancing thing; but my own tendencies to glue my "feet" to the floor when I think someone might be watching, waiting to see me fail. I want to dance, but I don't make the move to move.
I need a new pair of dancing shoes.
Not just to keep in the box, shiny and new.
I need to take them out, hold them in my hands, and put them on.
As 2014 unfolds, I want to learn how to dance in public––and then wear those dancing shoes until there are holes in the soles.
Dance with me?

In the Vortex

We've all heard the saying "Don't eat the yellow snow;" but these days, if the snow is yellow, it might be from something else than...well, you know. 
     In fact, the nationwide cold snap––being dubbed a "Polar Vortex"–– has brought about all kinds of unconventional methods for melting the snow and ice. Beet juice, molasses, potato juice, cheese brine...
     So maybe the yellow snow might actually be tasty now.
     All joking aside, I have no doubt we're all more than ready for this friggin' freak of frigidity to come to an end. They're feeling it even in Hawaii! Last time I checked, hula skirts didn't pair well with Uggs, but you never know. New trend, perhaps? 
     I, personally, am more than ready to wave good-bye to Frosty. He may look cute, but boy-o has a wicked streak. A sadistic streak, actually. I think he might be off his meds.
     Whatever the case may be, someone needs to hunt him down and light a match. 
     A lot of matches. 
     Lots and lots of matches.
     In the meantime, I guess we'll all have to hunker down and keep out eyes glued to the thermometer so that we know how to prepare. Blue might be a popular color in statement make-up right, now but I'm pretty sure that the blue-tinted lips on the pages of the glossies aren't courtesy of the thermostat. And blue nails? If it's not from the bottle of OPI you scored last week at Target, you might want to invest in some gloves.
     We might not have snow or iced-over roads here in Pensacola, these insanely cold days are at the top of conversation. Greetings hello are swiftly followed by marveled observations about the weather and sincere lamentations about how much we miss the warmth. Maybe the commiseration is one of our most effective ways of warming up––we break the ice by exchanging shivers, discussing the dip and cursing the cold. Suddenly we are all on level ground, huddled around the proverbial bonfire that now replaces the water-cooler chat. 
     Isn't it interesting, what it sometimes takes to unite us on one (very cold) front?

To Russia with Love

It's official.
I'm no longer SAD. I think I'm delusional...I'm seeing things, surely.
Right?
One poke of my head out the door would actually prove my firm grip on reality (ha!) and confirm the number on my car'd digital thermometer.
Nineteen degrees.
Let me repeat that.
Nineteen. Degrees.
Nineteen.
Nineteen.
I think I'm in hell.
I think the Ruskis are laughing.
They're exacting their revenge on us poor little wimps, clinking vodka shots and snuggling into their fur-lined boots and heavy coats to watch the show.
They drink.
We shiver.
I think I like their idea better.
Tempted as I am to test out the theory that Russia's favorite tonic keeps you warm, I think I might have to pass. Something tells me vodka and coherent writing are mutually exclusive.
In my case, at least. 
I have a feeling it would lave me comatose, rather that cognizant. And though the thought might be fun, I have far too much to do to slam the shots at the rate it would take to keep me warm.
And so I sit, stone cold sober, sucking down coffee and tea as I try not to lose any fingers to frostbite. Emphasis on the cold part.
Heavy emphasis on the cold part.
Even my laptop is cold.
Aluminum casing gets pretty darn frigid when you leave it in the car overnight, since metal is a conductor. So when I turn on my laptop in the morning, its warming up––literally.
Where am I going on this rambling rant about the cold?
I think that there's something to be learned in all of this––gratitude.
Gratitude that this is an anomaly, and not the norm.
Gratitude that there are days on the five-day forecast that will be far more moderate in temperature.
Gratitude that there is coffee and tea, and that I have a safe, warm place to go.
So before I sign off, I say this––Russia, I solute you. 
At this moment, we are comrades.
Raise your glass in a toast, as I raise my mug.
Here's to finding cheer in the chill.

Why So SAD?

Oddly enough, Florida and New Jersey (and probably a few other lucky states out there right now) have opted to trade places on the ever-unpredictable and duplicitous device called the thermometer. Last time I checked, Floridians weren't supposed to be dressing for a date with Jack Frost while our neighbors far to the north are enjoying a decidedly more temperate (though still chilled, I admit) outing. According to some lucky lady I heard on the radio this morning, her neck of the woods up in Jersey were enjoying temps upwards of 55, while my car was registering a frosty 32. 
Yup, you read that right.
It was cruel.
As you've gathered by now, I hate winter and the thermometer dips that accompany it. It seems to zap my enthusiasm for the day (and any foreseeable future period of low temps), making me tense and a grumpier version of myself than I'd like to see. I'm melancholy, rather than hopeful. 
If I had my way, the winter blues and blahs wouldn't have any effect on me, but I seem to be extremely susceptible to the season. 
I guess that would make me a SAD case, huh?
Maybe changing that should be on my aspirations for this year. 
Hmmm. If only I had a switch I could flip. 
Wouldn't that be nice...like a warming flicker on the flame of a gas fireplace, something to thaw out my blues. I could march out into the chilly air without the mental and emotional cringe that accompanies every blast of cold. 
Oh, if only it could be so simple.
For now, as I try to keep my little grey cells from turning blue, I'll have to bundle up and fake that smile til I make it. Maybe somewhere along the line, I'll figure out how to make my grimace into a grin––a genuine one. Maybe Jack Frost will decide he doesn't care to see us anymore and continue to date other women around the country. 
For now, we'll all do our weird little dance through the whipping cold air and look forward to warmer temps to come...somewhere...maybe Cupid will ping some flaming arrows this way... 

Consistently Inconsistent

Not that I consider myself some great contributor to the world wide blogosphere, but I always feel a slight bit of guilt when I go days between blog posts. For those few readers I do have (and thanks to you all, for your vigilance, patience, and interest in what I have to say–random though it mights sometimes seem), I feel a debt of gratitude and a desire to give them a steady stream of content. 

On that front, I seem to be terribly inconsistent. Really, I'm not being lazy. There are some days that seem to pass in a blink without giving me time enough to compose something both legible and interesting. There are some days when I have absolutely, positively no idea of what I have to say that might be even remotely worthy of posting. And there are some days that I just plain forget. All of which collaborate in conspiracy against me to become a dreadfully inconsistent frequency of postings. 

Maybe something I'll make it a point to rectify in this new year...

Four days in already! Isn't that just amazing? Maybe some of you out there are unfazed or can greet the date on the calendar without widening your eyes at the slippery passage of time, but I am not one of you. Nope. I am constantly amazed by how quickly one calendar month melts into another––sometimes  sweetly, like chocolate in a double boiler; sometimes more resembling clashing flavors, like salt melting into coffee. It may look a bit like sugar, but the two couldn't be more different.   

Quick as the year flashes by, the unpredictability seems to come more into play with regard to the hours of those days. Some seem to crawl by with painful disregard to any desire that we might have to wave good-bye. Some hours seem to whoosh by like a swift breeze––even if we'd rather they'd slow down a bit and let us catch up. They are predictably unpredictable, consistent in their inconsistency. However they pass, they are, in reality, the same number of seconds; minutes; and hours. 

Once they're gone, they're gone, never to be recaptured or rewound. In that way, they are both cruel and kind, depending on the day's events. 

So here we all stand, together facing the fourth of January, 2014. Each of us will be facing different hours, different ways that the same day will unfold. Unique to all of us, yet consistently inconsistent.

No Resolutions

Amazingly enough, it's the beginning of another year. 
     2013 is past, and 2014 is our new reality.
     The rent check I scribbled out this morning said January 1, 2014, an undeniable acknowledgement of not only a new month, but a new year. A brand new, clean slate. 
     I'm not making any resolutions––I never do. Rather, I have unofficial hopes for myself and for the year ahead. Perhaps a life coach or a counsellor would declare that insufficient, that I should make something concrete. 
     But, as I've learned far too many times, there are just too many things in life that you can't plan, and often those "resolutions" become condemnations rather than achievements. 
     Yes, I, the self-proclaimed control freak, am freely admitting that I don't have control the world and all the minutes that pass in the day. Much as I generally want to control everything, I don't get that luxury. Last time I checked, God hadn't issued any decrees that I am now Mistress of the Universe. The earth is still His domain, and He still knows far more than I will ever conceive of. 
     I'm still beyond flawed, and He's still beyond perfection.
     All of which mean I have a limited, human scope of the future. Any predictions I make will, in all likelihood, far fall short of the mark. Any plans I make will, in all likelihood, have to change in some way, whether those changes prove to be big or small.
     Granted, I'm not saying it's not wise to have goals or make plans. I'm saying (and trying to listen to myself say this and digest it, since––remember––I'm a control freak) that we need to make plans with the understanding that they need to be flexible, fluid. Not set in cold stone that shuts everyone out.
     There are other people in the world than just us, even though we'd all like to think that the world actually does revolve around us. It doesn't. Not even close.
     So make your plans and set your goals. 
     Dream your dreams. 
     Just do it all with the knowledge that the future isn't firmly in place yet.
     2014 is brand new, little caterpillar.
     Are you allowing your future to give you beautiful wings to fly, or are you pinning yourself behind glass?